


Recognising A Need

by Durrant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Gags, Kitchen Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Riding Crops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durrant/pseuds/Durrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson is lost and alone after Sherlock's death. Mycroft's attempt to help the good doctor becomes far more personal than he'd originally intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair and waited for John Watson to return.

The flat looked exactly as Sherlock would have left it; although it was obvious that Dr Watson had taken to talking to Sherlock's rather distasteful skull and also to opening Sherlock's violin case and gazing at the instrument within. As a child, Mycroft had been given piano lessons. Sherlock would have done too, except he had screamed and bawled until Mummy had relented and let him learn the violin. Mycroft hadn't wanted to learn the piano either, but it had never occurred to him to put up a fuss. He had done what was necessary to make Mummy happy and given up hours everyday day to practise. It hadn't occurred to him to be jealous of Sherlock because everyone knew that his little brother was special.

Then Mummy had died and Sherlock had become his responsibility. The awkward and confused child turned into the sullen and resentful teenager who would barely talk to Mycroft. The adult version was hardly any better. Until a certain Dr John Watson had entered Sherlock's life; he was so perfect that Mycroft wondered why he hadn't created a Dr Watson before now. Sherlock had opened up like a flower with Watson by his side. Watson was amazed by Sherlock's deductions in a way that others could never be; Mycroft found that Sherlock always missed something in his deductions, and his propensity to state his every conclusion, rather than keep the information to himself to be used later, was incomprehensible to Mycroft. Watson made sure that Sherlock ate, slept and generally looked after himself. He was everything that Sherlock needed and Mycroft would do almost anything to keep the arrangement between the two of them permanent.

However, the way that Watson was reacting to Sherlock's apparent death was worrying. There was hardly any point for Sherlock to go on this killing spree if there was no Watson to return home to. So Mycroft had stirred himself to visit Baker Street and wait for the good doctor's return. Mycroft doubted that anyone close to Sherlock would react favourably to shared commiserations and grief with Sherlock's hated brother. So, instead, he had decided to elicit some anger from Watson, to goad him out of his funk. Which was why, when he heard Watson coming up the stairs, Mycroft settled himself more comfortably into the chair that had been left reverently untouched since Sherlock had left .

"Hello, Mycroft," Watson said, his voice resigned. Mycroft wondered if he had left this visit too late, he had expected more of a reaction to breaking into the flat at the very least.

“Doctor,” Mycroft acknowledged with an incline of his head.

“Tea?” Watson asked, standing in the kitchen doorway, his face entirely blank and his voice emotionless. He looked entirely empty, purposeless. Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his face in imitation of Sherlock and considered how best to attack.

“No. Tell me, Doctor, do you blame yourself for my brother's death?” The doctor looked suitably stunned, but there was no glimmer of the anger that Mycroft was hoping for.

“What?” Watson croaked.

“Hardly a difficult question, Dr. Watson. My brother is dead and you can hardly claim to be entirely innocent of responsibility for that.” Mycroft watched closely to see how Watson would take the accusation; righteous anger or dismissal of the rantings of a grieving relative. Mycroft nearly groaned out loud as he saw something else; self-doubt, as the doctor questioned whether he was indeed responsible for the detective's death. That would only cause the man to sink deeper into this malaise.

“Of course, you would be wiser to blame me for his death,” Mycroft began, watching as Watson finally reacted strongly to something.

"Why?" His tone not yet accusatory, but Mycroft had definitely stirred some emotion.

"During my interrogations of Moriarty I gave away some personal information about my brother that I'm afraid was later used against him." Watson stared at him in silence. The words hadn't seemed to penetrate him and Mycroft wondered how much further he would have to push the doctor, he was finding taking responsibility for his brother's death surprisingly repugnant.

He needn't have been concerned though. Dr Watson had quite suddenly broken. Tears streamed down his face. Mycroft suddenly thought of a young Sherlock, his eyes brimming with tears, telling his brother that he would never have any friends. How that little boy would have crowed if he'd known that one day he would have John Watson's devotion.

"You did this. He wouldn't be dead if it weren't for you. This is your fault and you have to fix this," Watson sobbed out. Mycroft wondered if anyone else had seen him cry for Sherlock. Probably not, he decided; the man must have been entirely repressed for him to react this swiftly. He gave a small sigh as he recalled that this was the sort of emotional reaction that he had been trying to induce.

"Come here John," Mycroft said gently. The doctor walked over until he was standing directly in front of him and then, to Mycroft's utter astonishment, he dropped down on to his knees. He was practically in between Mycroft's legs.

"Please, fix this. Fix me." Watson said, his eyes cast down but leaning into Mycroft's lap, not quite touching him.

Mycroft nearly smiled at his realisation. Here was a man who had spent almost all of his adult life being given orders. Finding one master and then another until he had met Sherlock. However perfect Watson was for Sherlock, it paled by comparison to how perfect Sherlock was for Watson; Sherlock gave him orders, took control of his life for him but made sure that Watson knew he was special. Sherlock’s only friend in a world of people that Sherlock barely deigned to talk to. 

"John, he may be gone but that doesn't mean that you are not still needed," that caught the doctor's attention as he glanced up to look Mycroft in the eye.

"I just..There doesn't seem to be any point. Everything feels so empty. I want him back!". The doctor leaned further forward as he spoke so that his head was almost in Mycroft’s crotch. The sight was not unappealing, it had been a long time since anyone had been so close to Mycroft and even Watson’s emotional display couldn’t stop his cock from twitching with interest.

“John,” Mycroft began, but the carefully prepared words completely escaped as Watson slowly rubbed his cheek against Mycroft’s trousered groin. It had been years since he’d seen anyone regard him as a sexual being and, even then, everyone that he associated with had been civil servants, eager to use any means at their disposal to acquire more power. This man was an emotional wreck, but he was closer to his cock than anyone else has been in longer than Mycroft cared to contemplate. Watson rubbed his cheek against Mycroft’s hardening prick like a cat begging for affection.

Mycroft reached down and grabbed Watson by the hair, slowly pushing him back. He looked down into John’s wide, begging eyes. Mycroft knew this was a terribly bad idea, but really, how could anyone resist such temptation as this?

Mycroft began to undo his trousers with his free hand. Using only one hand made him slow, but the way that John followed his every movement with his eyes was dreadfully flattering.

Finally his cock was free, and he gave it a couple of languid strokes as it hardened more. He lifted his hips, arranged his clothes and shuffled forward on his chair; but he didn’t release his hold on Watson’s hair.

“Do you wish to be needed again, John?” Mycroft asked, tightening his grip on Watson’s hair. The doctor continued staring at Mycroft cock, as if he couldn’t believe he was really seeing it.

“I want..I want to be needed,” John stuttered.

“Then you know what I need you to do,” Mycroft said, finally releasing his hold on the man’s hair. John stayed frozen, seemingly overwhelmed by how quickly this situation had escalated. Then he swallowed noisily, licked his lips and surged forward.

Watson licked him. It was, Mycroft reflected, a rather shy lick. He only used the tip of his tongue and had the coyness of a man who hadn’t ever blown another man. Mycroft resisted the urge to force himself into John’s mouth, instead he grabbed the arms of the chair with both hands, determined that Watson would do this entirely himself.

Watson licked him again, slowly from root to tip. He was gaining confidence now, and flattening his tongue against Mycroft’s prick with increasing enthusiasm. Then finishing one last lick, Watson leaned up and swallowed as much of Mycroft as he could manage. Mycroft gasped in surprise as he was surrounded by that delicious wet heat. But then John gagged and pushed himself away from Mycroft as he started coughing. Mycroft smiled gently down at him, and reached out to cup John’s cheek as soon as he had finished coughing.

John’s eyes were watering but he came back to the position he’d been in before. This time he didn’t try to take all of Mycroft’s cock. He just began kissing the tip, soft wet kisses that made Mycroft close his eyes and his head fall back. John took the head of his cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around as if he were trying to taste him. Then, slowly, John began to bob his head, taking slightly more into his mouth each time.

He didn’t try and take all of it again, but with every bob of his head he let out a soft moan. Mycroft felt the vibrations around his prick before he actually heard John. Mycroft looked down at him in surprise. John’s moans got louder as he seemed to want this more and more. Mycroft had never felt more desired and after an embarrassingly short time Mycroft came with a stuttered gasp into John’s mouth.

John sat back, holding the come in his mouth, looking up at Mycroft with wide uncertain eyes.

“Swallow, John. Swallow all of it,” Mycroft said, trying to keep his voice calm even though he was breathing heavily after having the strongest orgasm he’d had in years. John swallowed.

“Well done, now stand up,” Mycroft said, managing to control his voice better. John looked uncertain, but then obeyed him. Mycroft reached out and undid his trousers, sliding them and his pants down to rest around John’s knees. The bottom of John’s shirt dangled in front of his crotch, so Mycroft tucked the shirt up into John’s hideously coloured jumper, leaving him completely exposed.

John’s cock was smaller than his own and his foreskin hadn’t retracted, even though he was fully hard. Mycroft pinched his foreskin between two fingers and played with it, softly rolling it with his fingertips. Mycroft was surprised by how much he enjoyed it, he knew that John was not expecting the pleasure to be reciprocated, that he could have left already if he so wished.

Mycroft stopped playing with his foreskin and began to stroke John firmly, wanking him with one hand. John began to make the same mewling noises he had earlier. Mycroft could see that he was about to come, and moved his free hand to catch it. With a loud groan John came into Mycroft’s waiting hand.

“Kneel, John.” Mycroft was pleased to see that this time his command was obeyed immediately.

“Open your mouth, John.” Again, John did as he was told, promptly. Mycroft held his come filled hand above John’s mouth, and cupped his fist, so that the spunk poured slowly into the waiting mouth.

“Clean my hand, John.” Mycroft instructed. John looked puzzled as Mycroft still held his hand near John’s mouth. Finally a look of comprehension floated across his face and he leaned forward to lick the rest of his own come from Mycroft’s hand.

The noise of John slurping his hand reverberated around the sitting room and made Mycroft feel sordid. He had, after all, intended to shake Dr. Watson from his grief, and he had certainly managed some kind of reaction. He knew he should leave now, text Sherlock and let someone else deal with the doctor. Before he had come here today he hadn’t felt able to trust anyone else to handle someone so precious to Sherlock. Now he didn’t want to hand Dr.Watson’s care off to someone else. Perhaps John did actually need him; obviously not as much as he needed Sherlock, but more than anyone else ever had.

“I will visit this flat again in two days time, at 7 pm. If you wish to be needed again then I shall see you then,” Mycroft said, standing up and arranging his clothes. John just stared up at him, looking astonished and not making any move to cover himself. Mycroft allowed himself a moment of weakness and bent down to kiss the top of John’s head, before heading for the door. He glanced back at John before he left.

John was still kneeling, with his clothes around his knees but now there was a smile on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

_I saw your doctor the other night._

The answering text was almost instantaneous, despite the sender being half a world away.

_Stay away from him._

Sherlock was never capable of sharing and his burning resentment at Mycroft’s interaction with John was hardly a surprise. 

John might be entirely his for the moment, but as soon as Sherlock returned he would lose him completely. Sherlock would demand his beloved best friend back. The knowledge that Mycroft and John’s relationship had been sexual would tear at his little brother, until he claimed the doctor for himself. Stealing a lover from his brother would be the sweetest nectar to Sherlock, and John, poor sweet John, would always choose Sherlock over him. 

And Mycroft would let it happen. Sherlock was his special little brother, who must be looked after at all times. He wouldn’t even say a word to persuade John not to leave him. However, in the short time that he possessed John Watson, he would do so utterly.

* * *

Mycroft leaned back into the leather upholstery as he read through the Belgian ambassador’s formal complaint. The man was certainly incompetent, a petty minded bureaucrat who couldn’t see the wider implications of his actions; the most important of which was that he was going to be late arriving at Baker Street because of this rather pointless argument. 

The curtains of John’s flat twitched as Mycroft’s car pulled up. John was clearly expecting him and agitated by the delay. It was hardly a declaration of desire, but Mycroft chose to be flattered by John’s impatience. 

John was waiting for him already, the front door of the flat flung open. He was wearing another of his hideously coloured jumpers; before the next time they went out Mycroft would have to send him something more suitable to wear. John shifted awkwardly on his feet, his eagerness fading as he became unsure of how to greet Mycroft; he was so easy to read, so incapable of lying. So different from everyone else Mycroft dealt with on a daily basis. 

“John, I apologise for the delay,” Mycroft said. John shrugged, his hands hanging by his side; he wasn’t about to try and shake Mycroft’s hand.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” John said, his voice steady but his discomfort obvious. Mycroft kissed his cheek in greeting. It was so rare for him to be this physically close to anyone. The memory of John’s mouth on his prick was too recent, too vivid and being close to that mouth again was making him hard already. 

“You should learn to trust me. I need you, John, and right now I need you to get ready. We’re going out.”

* * *

He’d chosen this restaurant for the ambience; formal and expensive enough to let John know his intentions were serious, but not so much that John would find it overwhelming. Although, judging by the way John was tugging at his jumper, he had not chosen the right place.

“Messieurs? Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, startling John. The restaurant was Lynonnais, but the waiter’s accent was pure Marseillais; an inauspicious sign for their cuisine. 

“Er…” John stammered, looking bewilderedly over the menu. It was in French but Mycroft had assumed John’s GCSE would see him through.

“The crayfish and then the quenelles for both of us,” Mycroft ordered, he had not intended to remove all control of the evening from John. 

“Thanks,” John muttered, although he didn’t seem particularly displeased. Would he have voiced displeasure if Sherlock had ordered for him? Did he think that his relationship with Mycroft was so tenuous that he dared not criticise? 

“I think I recognise that bloke over there,” John said quietly, discreetly pointing his head to an attractive young man.

“The famous actor paying off his blackmailing prostitute?” Mycroft asked, making John splutter into his aperitif. 

“There is no way you know that,” John said laughingly, his shoulders relaxing. “You’re just making that up!”

“Indeed?” Mycroft smiled, he hadn’t played this game in years; not since Sherlock had been a child and they would deduce people together. Nowadays, in the murky world of politics, he had to keep his deductions silent. “Which bit do you think I’m making up? You know he’s an actor, you were the one that recognised him.”

“Well, yeah. Alright then...Wait a second, you didn’t recognise him?”

“No.”

“So,” John grinned at him, “So, how did you know he was an actor? And famous?”

As Mycroft went on to explain that only someone with a famous face would have such ridiculously oversized sunglasses on the table at this time of the evening, and that there was a smudge of stage make-up on the man’s forehead, John gazed at him in wonder. Mycroft continued on, explaining away the original couple and then progressing to every other diner in the place; the deductions themselves were so simple that he almost felt foolish for accepting praise for them. Each new observation and deduction brought forth more gasps of admiration from John. The adoration in his eyes was breathtaking, addictive almost. Mycroft could see what drew Sherlock to him. He did not want to think of his brother when he was sitting here with John, but it was already too late. Mycroft pushed his dessert away from him; the thought of Sherlock and his perpetual taunts about his weight had killed his appetite. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket, his assistant knew better to contact him unless it was an absolute emergency. He muttered an apology to John before taking his mobile out, but John didn’t seem perturbed; but then, after Sherlock, he must be used to being ignored in favour of a text message. The poor man was probably even used to the indignity of Sherlock borrowing his phone to do so.

The Belgian ambassador had been found murdered. 

“John, I regret that I must return to the office, there has been an incident,”

John’s whole body seemed to slump with disappointment. The man was always so eager to follow Sherlock; perhaps he would also follow Mycroft, even though his investigations were far less glamorous. 

“Would you care to accompany me?”

* * *

“Strip, John,” Mycroft said as he sat down behind his desk at his club. He could manage his work perfectly well from here, “Strip and kneel beside me.”

Mycroft watched the CCTV footage from outside the Belgian embassy and read through the police’s initial reports. The murder seemed unrelated to this evening’s earlier incident. Mycroft curled his fingers into John’s hair and thought about the case. John leaned into him, eager for more of his touch. In fact, it seemed most likely that the murder was an entirely domestic affair; the wife was the most obvious suspect. John rubbed his cheek lightly against Mycroft’s thigh. 

It was flattering but ultimately wrong of John. Mycroft slapped him, not hard but hard enough to make John jerk away from him. 

“Not yet, John,” Mycroft said softly before turning his mind back to the case. It really couldn’t be anyone other than the wife, although he couldn’t be completely sure until he saw the pathologist's report. 

Finally, he was finished. He emailed his assistant her instructions and then turned to watch John. He was kneeling as still as he could; he was far more disciplined than Mycroft would have insisted upon. He hadn’t moved at all since Mycroft had slapped him. 

Mycroft slowly cleared his desk, thrusting papers into drawers haphazardly. He had planned to fuck John tonight, but not here, not like this. There was no lube and spit would have to do, but there was no doubt John would forgive him. He pulled John up and pushed him backwards onto the desk. John lay back without a word of complaint. His large trusting eyes stared up at Mycroft. All the admiration that had been so conspicuous in the restaurant was still there and Mycroft wanted as he had never wanted before in his life. 

“I’m going to fuck you, John Watson,” he said, his voice still surprisingly steady. John’s eyes dilated, his hard cock twitched; Mycroft reached down to him and stuck two fingers into John’s willing mouth. John’s tongue lapped at him, wetting his fingers rapidly; he was so beautifully needy.

Mycroft pushed a wet finger into John’s hole, it was slightly awkward but John moaned and shivered and tried to push down and take more of his finger inside him. 

“Keep still,” Mycroft hissed as he added another finger. 

“Please, Mycroft, please,” John panted breathlessly. Mycroft wanted to acquiesce, but it was too fascinating to watch his fingers slide in and out of John’s arse. How could he possibly give this up?

His cock strained against his trousers. He didn’t want to get undressed; it felt too good to have John naked while he hadn’t even undone a single shirt button. Almost reluctantly, he undid his trousers and pushed them down to his ankles. John’s wild eyes tracked his every movement as he pushed John’s legs apart and shoved his cock into John. 

John screamed. 

Nothing should feel this good; so hot and so tight. Mycroft held himself above John, not pulling out yet and letting John adjust to the intrusion. John panted up at him, staring him in the face. He’d never been with a man before, Mycroft realised. He should be ashamed, for ripping someone’s virginity from them in such a manner, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop the overwhelming joy of having got there first. It was primal and undignified. 

“I need you, John,” Mycroft gasped, his voice breathy and strange. John scratched at his back and made a meaningless noise that Mycroft chose to interpret as consent. He pulled his cock roughly from John’s arse and pounded back in again. It had been so long since he’s done this, how could he have ever forgotten how this felt? It was overwhelming and far, far too much. Too much heat and too much pressure. He was going to come far too soon. He grabbed hold of John’s cock and pumped at it until the man cried out and came all over his stomach. John’s arse clamped down around his prick and, for a brief second, it hurt but then he was coming and all he could do was push himself deeper and deeper into John. He wanted to always be inside this man.

He’d come inside John Watson. His softening cock was still inside John Watson. His spunk was inside the man, dribbling slowly out of him. John Watson was his; Sherlock had never done this.

* * *

He’d never before enjoyed inflicting pain; too much work for too little satisfaction. But with John everything was different. His little soldier’s open face begged for the absolution of pain, and afterwards he gazed adoringly as Mycroft tended to his bruised flesh. Mycroft had never seen love given away so freely. Of course, it wasn’t really aimed at him; he was merely a simulacrum of Sherlock. But he would make John remember him, even when Sherlock returned some part of John would always be Mycroft’s. 

Sherlock would deduce John’s submissiveness and his masochism, maybe not as quickly as he had, but Sherlock would get there in the end. But Mycroft could get there first. 

It was a month into their understanding before Mycroft had John in Baker Street. It would be too obvious, even to John, if they fucked in Sherlock’s bed. 

“Mycroft?” John was hesitant to even step inside the flat with Mycroft, as if he could sense Mycroft’s intentions; although, of course, he never could. John was too innocent. 

“Come, John, as much as I enjoy our excursions to my club, this is your home.” He kissed the man chastely on the lips, withdrawing even as John whimpered and closed his eyes. He was so deliciously responsive. How much longer would John be his for? How soon before Sherlock came home and ruined everything?

“I...Yeah, do you want some tea?” John smiled, the lost and empty expression that had haunted him since Sherlock’s fall was gone whenever he was with Mycroft. 

“I would like to see the kitchen. I believe it needs a proper examination,” he brushed John’s cheek lightly. It was so smooth; John had shaved twice today in preparation for their evening together. Another compliment and Mycroft basked in the feeling of being so adored, so wanted. “Strip, John,” he whispered, and John obeyed. The cheap clothes falling from him and revealing his soldier’s skin, luminous in the darkened flat. His little fighter was making him poetic and sentimental, but he could not begrudge John that; he would not have him very long, he had savour John, to fix him in his memory. 

He led the naked doctor to the kitchen and, instead of letting John put the kettle on, he bound his wrists with his belt. 

“Bend over the kitchen table, John. Yes, just like that.” Mycroft, still fully dressed, pressed kisses to John’s back. This was the table that Sherlock did his experiments on. Would he ever deduce what Mycroft was about to do on this kitchen table?

“Shh,” Mycroft said soothingly as John whimpered. “Close your eyes and stay perfectly still. Can you do that for me?”

He didn’t need to stay and watch as John nodded. He knew that John would rather die than disobey him. So beautifully loyal. Mycroft didn’t need to search the flat to find what he was looking for, he knew it would still be in Sherlock’s room; still at the back of the wardrobe that was, even now, packed full of Sherlock’s clothes. 

Sherlock’s riding crop. It had always been Sherlock’s favourite toy and it would not take him long to use it on John. But, perhaps, he could make John remember him, just a little, if he used it on him first. 

He had never mastered Sherlock’s silent tread and he watched as John twitched every time his footfalls made the old floorboards creak. His soldier wouldn’t intentionally move a muscle but his naked body was trembling; entirely focused on Mycroft’s return, so desperate for him. 

Mycroft pulled off his tie. His one great fear was that one day John would scream out Sherlock’s name instead of his own. He could not let that happen, it was better that John was always gagged rather than ever run the risk of hearing Sherlock’s name on John’s lips. John kissed his fingers as he gagged him with his tie. 

“So good, John, well done. Only ten strokes, for doing so very well,” Mycroft murmured kissing John’s shoulder, just above his beautiful scar.

The riding crop hissed through the air and smacked John’s arse cheek. His whole body jerked forwarded, he writhed between pain and pleasure; it was the most beautiful thing that Mycroft had ever seen. John screamed inarticulately through his tie. He was so very, very perfect.

“One,” Mycroft’s voice trembled, trying to hide how John’s perfection was making his voice crack. He raised the riding crop again and brought it down on John’s other arse cheek.

“Two,” he couldn’t stop his voice from breaking, but John’s scream masked it. He was already so hard, he wanted to be inside his beautiful John; how could he ever get to ten?

“Three,” Mycroft whispered as he struck John’s back. His hand ghosted across the red lines already forming on John’s arse; a gentle caress for his strong soldier. John shivered and panted around his tie, the silk would be ruined but Mycroft would treasure it always. 

John was so close to coming by the time he got to ten strokes that Mycroft was reticent to touch him. 

“Come before I give you permission and I’ll give you another ten strokes,” Mycroft said as he kissed a rapidly forming welt on John’s back. There was a sachet of lube in his trouser pocket. A man of his age had no business carrying such things around but John was a boon no man could have expected. 

John’s tight little arsehole swallowed up his finger. After all these weeks, John was looser than he used to be, or maybe he just relaxed more easily; either way, it was a sign of John’s body adapting itself to Mycroft. An indelible sign that John was his. Mycroft groaned out loud as his cock slid into John.

* * *

_Moran in London_

The buzzing of his phone woke Mycroft up. Sherlock was on his way to London. There was a slight chance that he would remain hidden from John, but only until Sherlock realised that John and he were sleeping together. After that, Sherlock would risk his death, and John’s too, rather than let it continue a moment longer. 

John snuggled closer, his small frame clinging to Mycroft in a way that made him feel more powerful than his job ever did. This would be their last night together. Mycroft held John tighter, his fingers carding through John’s hair. 

“What’ss?” John asked, drowsy and incoherent. Mycroft kissed the top of his head and tried to memorise this feeling. The naked man in his arms fell back to sleep, but he did not close his eyes again.

* * *

It was an entirely normal morning. They got up together and showered together. John washed his body lovingly and got to his knees to kiss his cock. Unlike every other morning, Mycroft pulled him up and didn’t let John give him a blowjob. John would be doing that later for Sherlock and he did not want his lover to be so tawdry as to have two lovers from the same family in the same day. 

They ate breakfast together. Mycroft hand fed John pieces of fruit, making him lick at his fingertips. Sherlock barely fed himself, he would never have the patience to do this for John.

Eventually, John left for the surgery. It was a little before nine when he closed the front door behind him. Mycroft watched from an upstairs window as John walked to the Tube station. He was being sentimental and melodramatic. John wasn’t about to die, he would be fine, happier; but he would never be Mycroft’s again.

* * *

Mycroft hadn’t expected to hear from John for some time, aside perhaps from an angry phone call or a text. So it was a surprise when one of his club’s attendants knocked on his door later that day and said that Dr Watson was here to see him. 

Naturally, he could not refuse John. He wondered idly if he ever could. The man that walked into his office, however, was no longer his John. He was already Sherlock’s. It had always been inevitable. 

Selfish Sherlock, who had never owned a toy he didn’t break. Who had _owned_ John for years and never touched him. Who would have never given John a second glance, if Mycroft hadn’t desired him. 

For a split second he hated his brother and his arrogance that was destroying Mycroft’s happiness. It didn’t have to be like this, he could fight for John. He might, possibly, even win. He may not have Sherlock’s appeal, but he did have the advantage of months of a stable, sexual relationship. 

He took a breath, the words coming unbidden to his lips. 

Sherlock had branded John so obviously. The bite mark high above his collar. The second button of John’s barrel cuffs, the ones he always forgot to do up, were fastened. Mycroft could picture the scene vividly. Sherlock doing up his lover’s button before he left their home. It would have been painfully domestic and loving. 

Mycroft released his breath slowly, and remained silent. 

He loved his brother. As much as Mycroft burned for John, he loved Sherlock more. Sherlock had always been his to protect and now he would give him the ultimate gift. John Watson’s love. Even though, Mycroft knew with absolute certainty, that Sherlock would never treasure this man as he deserved. As Mycroft had done.

“You lied to me. All this time, you knew he was alive! And everything between us? What was that? A joke? A pity fuck? Well? Don’t you have anything to say?” John said, his voice hurt but his stance was that of a soldier on the defensive.

“I’m afraid not, Dr. Watson. Is there anything else? As you can see, I have a rather busy afternoon ahead of me.”

John shook his head in disbelief. Mycroft thought he saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes, but it might have been wishful thinking; he wanted John to mourn the end of their relationship. He knew that he would. 

Dr. Watson stormed from the room, and Mycroft returned to his paperwork.


End file.
